


m. l. relictus

by Sword_Kallya



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alfred Pennyworth is the Best, Bruce is nine or ten, But he's still learning how to parent, Gen, Grief, He's still grieving his parents, Separation Anxiety, Shifter AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-15 22:34:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29815395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sword_Kallya/pseuds/Sword_Kallya
Summary: Raising a child is difficult. Raising a grieving child, more so.Raising a grieving child who can shapeshift into a form less than two inches long to hide is a sodding nightmare. Alfred Pennyworth should know.
Relationships: Alfred Pennyworth & Bruce Wayne
Comments: 5
Kudos: 94





	m. l. relictus

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [what big teeth you have](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27394651) by [envysparkler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/envysparkler/pseuds/envysparkler). 



> Mild creative liberties are taken with the life cycle of little brown bats - Bruce shouldn't be able to fly at this stage in development, but the rules are different for shifters, right?

Alfred stepped into the kitchen, arms laden with grocery bags, and paused. In the quiet, there was the distinct sound of a flutter. Of course.

“Master Bruce, it will be much easier for you to eat this from the table.” Alfred carefully set the bags to the side – nothing they contained was _very_ perishable, he didn’t need to put everything away immediately – and began slicing a Honeycrisp apple into bat-bite sized pieces. He subtly scanned the room as he did so. Where was that boy this time?

He caught a flash of bright blue eyes from the top of the refrigerator. Well. That answered whether he could still fly or not. Clever as Bruce was, and as rambunctious as he had been before that terrible night in Park Row, there was no way a juvenile bat of less than an inch long could have climbed up the side of a stainless-steel refrigerator.

The largest piece of apple was less than the size of his pinkie fingernail. Alfred arranged them on a large plate, which he set at the head of the kitchen table. He turned to look at Master Bruce. “Would you like to fly down, or shall I provide assistance?”

The tiny black-on-blacker form shrank back into the shadows of the cupboards. Alfred suppressed a sigh. Master Bruce, it seemed, was in a _mood._

“Well then. I shall put the groceries away, and then have myself a cup of tea. If you desire my assistance, simply ask.” There were an awful lot of groceries to put away, which was excellent. It gave Alfred something to do with his hands as he worried. Of course, the young master was a grieving child. He refused to speak to any of the therapists Alfred had paid to talk to the boy, but a blind man could see it. Many of the books he’d read said that sometimes there would simply be days where the boy couldn’t help but be overwhelmed by the fact that his parents were gone. And who could blame him? It had been barely a year since their deaths.

Even so, Alfred had thought they had been making progress. This return to constant bat-form, to silences and hiding and watching from dark places, was a distinctly uncomfortable reminder of the first months, when Alfred had had to very quickly learn to care for a young _bat,_ not a young boy. And Master Bruce had been so animated the past few days, almost as though the boy from before the alley had returned. He couldn’t help but wonder if _he_ had done something to remind the boy of his grief.

Behind him, Alfred heard the flutter of wings. He very carefully did _not_ smile. Any reaction might spook Master Bruce back into hiding. Instead, he continued with the groceries. He did not look at the inch-long bat hiding from him behind a pile of apple cubes larger than the bat. He ignored the itch of intense blue eyes on the back of his neck. The situation was _delicate._

By the time all the food was in its proper place and the kettle was on to boil, Alfred noticed a few of the apple bits had bites taken out of them. He inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. At least it would not be a return to the days when Bruce had to be cajoled for hours before he would take a single bite. The boy’s atrocious table manners, while they rankled, were by far second to ensuring that he was _eating._

The kettle whistled. Alfred turned away, busying himself with milk and honey and his personal rose and bergamot blend. The scents were soothing to him; he could only hope that Master Bruce found them to be the same. Perhaps he should consider stocking lavender blends, for occasions such as this one.

Alfred returned to the table with his tea set and a gardening manual. The little bat was no longer trying to hide, but still only stealing glances at him when he wasn’t looking. Fewer of the apple cubes were gone than Alfred would like. Ah, well. He’d take his victories where he could get them. He settled in where the mound of cut fruit would hide Bruce from his sight. It provided an easy cover, in case trying to interact with the boy would send him hiding again. Several of the therapists said that Master Bruce was likely to react badly to perceived threats, given… everything that had happened. Allowing him to hide when he felt unsafe should reassure him that Alfred would never do him harm. Hopefully.

It took thirty pages of the gardening manual, a cup and a half of tea, and a few musings on the merits of rosemary versus thyme for Alfred to hear a rustle of cloth. He looked up, and instead of a bat, he saw a small boy sitting across from him, picking at the apple cubes one at a time. Once again, Alfred had to hide a smile. Master Bruce was a stubborn, contrary child; any attempt to praise or reward him for returning to human form was likely to send him fluttering away as a bat again. Instead, Alfred simply turned a page in his book. “You might find that easier to do with a spoon.”

That earned him a soft _hmph,_ so very like Thomas that it hurt. Alfred had to take a deep breath to ensure he wouldn’t tear up – or worse, compare the two aloud. On his good days, Master Bruce would be thrilled to be told how much he was like his parents. On the bad –

Well. One didn’t have to be a mind reader to see how much it had hurt, the one time Alfred had compared his stubbornness to his mother’s.

Alfred fetched a second cup of tea for Master Bruce, now that he was of a size to use one safely, before returning to his book. Between the two of them, they emptied the pot before the young master spoke.

“You got groceries.”

If it were a good day, Alfred would have responded with _your observational abilities continue to astound._ However, it was categorically a Bad Day, so he controlled decades of ground-in sarcasm. “I did,” he said instead. “I went down to the farmer’s market. I was thinking of shepherd’s pie for dinner tonight if there are no objections.”

Master Bruce fell silent again, fiddling with his cup. Alfred ceased looking at him after a few moments, fearing the observation would make the boy feel uncomfortable.

“When’s the farmer’s market open?” The words were half-mumbled, pushed out like Master Bruce was afraid that they might disappear if he spoke too slowly.

“It runs from eight in the morning until noon,” Alfred said calmly. “I prefer to go early, before the crush of people sets in.” They were apparently in for a Conversation – long silences and awkward phrases as the two of them danced around their perceptions of the other. Joy of joys. Alfred went to fetch another pot of tea.

As he returned to the table, Alfred noted a tension in the boy’s shoulders that he did not like at _all._ Perhaps he had made some misstep. Hopefully, the boy would tell him what had frightened him so.

Master Bruce was slouching in his chair, the lower half of his face nearly invisible beneath the lip of the table. Alfred stomped on the urge to correct him. Manners were of little meaning at this point.

“When’d you leave?” the child finally asked. Had something about Alfred’s trip to the farmer’s market bothered him so? He had taken Master Bruce with him several times, when being separated from his caretaker was truly unbearable for the boy. Alfred made two trips a month. He ought to be quite familiar with the routine by now.

“I left at seven, to allow time for the drive into the city,” Alfred said. “You’ve come with me before.”

The boy shrank down even further, his nose disappearing behind the remaining bits of apple. He wasn’t looking at Alfred. “You were gone.”

Alfred almost opened his mouth to say _of course._ Almost. But then he thought about what that meant, and –

 _Oh, Pennyworth, you bloody_ fool.

Of course this would be a bad day, if Master Bruce had awoken to find the only person to stay with him after his parents’ murders was _gone,_ with no note or trace of where he might be. Of course he would hide where he was most likely to see Alfred’s return. How terrified he must have been. Alfred’s heart broke all over again for the child. “I am sorry, Master Bruce. I didn’t think how you might react to waking up to find me gone. Would you like me to wake you to come with me, next time I go?”

Master Bruce shrunk down even further at the attention, but there was a definite nod in the tremble of dark hair. Alfred made a very firm mental note of the decision. Even if the child decided he would rather go back to sleep than make the journey, Alfred would at least leave a note for him with an estimated return time. That should go far to helping prevent another of these incidents. The last thing he wanted was to make his charge feel unsafe.

Prevention settled, his next concern was helping Master Bruce feel better here and now. Food and drink should go a long way towards that, he knew, but some physical reassurance of Alfred’s presence might help. “Would you like to come with me as I do my chores?” Alfred held out a hand.

In a few seconds, Alfred was holding a jet-black juvenile bat, wings smaller than his finger. Alfred smiled and tucked Master Bruce into his breast pocket. “Let’s start in the garden, shall we?”

The pleased clicking he got in return warmed his heart.


End file.
